


IT'S BECOME A HABIT; i'm back at my cliff

by mobiustrip



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Defenestration, Gen, I Love Ascribing Wild Amounts of Meaning to Things, Inspired by s05e03: Tea Leaves, Michael Ginsberg is the Best Character, One Shot, weird hobbies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mobiustrip/pseuds/mobiustrip
Summary: “Turns out we both have a dream of throwing something through this window.”





	IT'S BECOME A HABIT; i'm back at my cliff

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a very small thing, from all the way back in 2013. it was written quickly and at the spur of the moment, as a sample for an RP application. though it could be better and I'd write it a little differently nowadays (as I have continued to write about Michael), I still kind of like it. came across it again today and thought, hell, why not.
> 
> title comes from Björk — Hyperballad

Someone keeps breaking one of the windows in the office.

It's always been a little wobbly. Most people at the agency know better than to handle it too roughly, but some dumbass must continually be jerking it around, because today marks the fourth time this month that the frame has become stuck in the open position. To make matters even more irritating, there's now a crack creeping through the glass, from one of the corners toward its center. Pete Campbell stands around complaining about the irresponsibility of others for a while before skulking off; Don rolls his eyes and lets someone else handle the problem; Joan quietly sees about finding the culprit.

Michael Ginsberg, meanwhile, stares at the window and gets the urge he always does.

He's never questioned it too much. It seems like a natural desire: to throw or drop something from a great height, to watch it as it tumbles, to wait for the impact, and then—

He doesn't think about it too deeply. Throwing things out of windows—it's something a stupid kid does.

Michael approaches it, walks closer until he can feel the slight breeze on his face, until he can reach out into the air and let it play on his fingers. It's a cloudy day out. A little muggy. There might be a storm later in the evening. There aren't many people out on the street; most are at work or school, and it's not nice enough to go walking for no reason. He pulls his hand back and reaches into a pocket, where he feels the soft edge of an eraser against his skin.

He pulls it out, examines it. He wishes he could throw something bigger out there—maybe something that might break—but Dawn's already glancing at him every few seconds from the corner of her eye. A witness! Costs and benefits must be weighed. At least he'll have Roger on his side.

He's close enough to lean his head out now. He has to get this over with before someone important walks in.

With a flick of his wrist, the eraser goes sailing.

Michael's eyes are trained on it, all the way down. During the moments its body is between his hand and the pavement, there is a sense of suspension, disconnection, and loss. An existence between origin and oblivion. All options pulled away. Solitude. He stops breathing, like that will also stop time, like that will make this fleeting blossom of release less ephemeral.

But it's a disappointingly fast and uneventful fall, in reality. The eraser doesn't flip around much, doesn't bounce off of anything, doesn't hit anyone. It simply careens downward, appearing smaller and even smaller as it speeds away from him.

A speck of pink hits the ground. No one down there notices. Michael blinks and exhales and then steps back from the window. He looks over at Dawn, who is looking at him. They stare at each other in silence.


End file.
